THE GRANDMOTHER didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her connections in east Tennessee and she was seizing at every chance to change Bailey's mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy. He was sitting on the edge of his chair at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the Journal. "Now look here, Bailey," she said, "see here, read this," and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other rattling the newspaper at his bald head. "Here this fellow that calls himself The Misfit is aloose from the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just you read it. I wouldn't take my children in any direction with a criminal like that aloose in it. I couldn't answer to my conscience if I did." Bailey didn't look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and faced the children's mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-‐kerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit's ears.
"You Sure Got Eyes Like A Preacher"
"How Does it...?"
[The song, Moz, is covering, on his next release.]
One of the crowd was a close friend and bros., Bob. On, the harmonica, and here we have it?
Jesus' people, Happy Warriors, Slaves to The Lover, Hippies, drunks, punks, ...an',,,